Some people can see in the dark. 

It's tomorrow Now

There's cold in the air now and dew gathering on the grass that tickles our feet as we walk back from the party. I dangle my sandals from one hand  as we leave the lights and the laughter behind.

Soon I can see nothing, but you can, that's your secret power you tell me. At first I don't believe you, but it becomes clear that, to you, this darkness is different than it is for me.

I can imagine your face as you ask what I can see. 'The edge of the path, can you see that''? "No, nothing, I can't see my hand, or you" I reply. You try again, "the stones there, you must see them, there's silver shining on them".  For me there is only soft darkness and the feelings of our fingers linking as we walk on.  I try closing my eyes, thinking I'd see better when I opened them, but the darkness is unrelenting.

There is no choice but to trust you, believe in what you say and be led along this track I know so well in daylight.  You tell me astigmatics like you can see in the dark, I ask if it's a religious thing and we laugh.  "We were the night walkers, the people who led raids under the cover of night, the ones who could hunt when others saw nothing" you tell me.  You also fill me in on how you weren't able to see well in the light till you went to school and someone worked it out.

Then you're no longer leading, I know you've stopped. I feel your breath and then we're kissing,  and I touch your face to make sure it's still you.

A sudden cough very close to us causes us to spring apart, and we both laugh.  "who's that"? I ask into the night, but there's no answer. A hollow chewing sound tells me we're next to the horses.

Our hands meet again as we set off again, you leading like before, me stumbling and sliding a little as you stride on. I look up and see the outline of the crown of a tree as the sky lets in a tiny touch of deep blue. "Yes, that's it" he says, " now can you see the gate and the crown of the track yet"?

But for me there is no track, nothing to see at ground level.

We walk on in silence till the first blackbird starts her liquid song and the dawn pinks the sky.

I don't usuall write much about my childhood. This story is written from chilhood memories, but not in the first person. I was diagnosed with dyslexia as an adult eventually, and have worked hard at words and numbers and still try and keep improving.  Spellcheck and calculators are my pals!

STIPIT

I suppose they micht just hae forgot, but it was aifter Easter an near the end o P1 afore they sent her aff tae the schuile, Helen felt was awfy auld, her new sister wis fower when she went, an she hersel hid been five fir a lang time, even since she had lived wi Granny whae nivver took off her knitting belt and made her pan scones on the griddle.

Her mither had come away frae the island wi Helen and her baby sister tae leeve wi the new people in the big auld hoose wi the heid o a dead stag wi horns and glassy eyes above the door that feart her tae the bone.

She’d learned plenty since she was there mind. She kent tae ca him Uncle noo, she’d learned tae use her new second name, she’d learned her old name was bad, but it was still in her clock picture book she kept under the bed so no one could take it. It had pictures of round clocks with hands, but she couldn’t tell what they said yet, but she kent that writing in blue on the lines in the empty page at the front said her whole name.

When she got tae the wee schuile that was on the corner opposite the bull field an the barrage dam, alang wi her new brothers and sisters she felt prood. Prood o her new leather schuile bag oan her back, her pencil and even her apple for play-piece.

The schuile had a wee end and a big end, twae classes, the wee end had new wooden tables and chairs, the big end, where the P5 tae 7’s went was set out wi forms rising up high.

 Miss James, in her black dusty dress, wanted her tae coont and dae letters wi the ithers at the wee tables. But the letters wouldny form richt oan the paper an the numbers slithered aboot, even the duckie 2’s, her favourites, could turn into 5’s if you weren’t careful.

They gave her blocks and rods tae help wi the numbers, wee cubes and longer blocks the cubes fitted intae, but it widny stick. She’d hae a minute whaur she’d hae it, then the knowledge wid slither away when she tried tae ca it back.

 

Helen couldny fathom the letters either, reading them wasn’t so bad, but still awfy hard, but she couldny write them well. They went backwards, the sticks were on the wrong side and they wouldn’t stay on the lines.

 

The mair she tried the warse it got.

Of course the belt they yaised fir the P1’s wis softer an wee, but when Miss James stoated it off the desk an telt her tae stop being stipit she was fair feart.  The next b she wrote was worse, backwards and not sitting on the line.

 

And as the teacher told her tae hud oot her haun, an hoo tae hud her other wrist and hold her hand flat, and she waited wi her een scrunched up, she really kent how bad she must be fir being stipit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 A short story. I used to live in a farming community, and this tale is based on someone I knew. 

Just the Business

 

Sammy’s hair had always been fair and fine, when she was alive his mother would say his hair was “just the business”.

But something was changing, and fast. Each time he peered in the foxed bathroom mirror there seemed to be less hair there. But there was plenty on the pillow, the comb, the sink and inside his tweed bonnet every time he took it off, but a lot less where it should have been.

When at last the wig arrived in the post one Saturday morning Sammy felt a mix of emotions, but once he had got it just right on his head he was delighted.  It didn’t just give him his looks back, it kept his head nice and warm under his bonnet when he was out feeding the cows on a cold morning.

Later on in the fuggy atmosphere of the pub he was sure he heard a couple of the lads sniggering and felt himself colour up, but Jacqueline the barmaid had said his new hair was “the business”, and that was just enough for Sammy.

After a few years Sammy realised wigs didn’t last forever. The yellow blonde had become nicotine coloured from his roll ups, but worse, the damned wig was going bald under his cap. Where the beautiful yellow strands had been there were pink plastic patches with little circles where each tuft used to be.

So, ten years on from the first, Sammy popped a postal order in an envelope and waited for his new locks to arrive. When the wig came it was just as full of lovely yellow hair as the first. But this time Sammy, who had always been very careful with money, wasn’t going make the same mistake again. These things were not cheap. He wore the old wig with his bonnet, and kept the new one for good.

When the bread van peeped outside, Sammy headed out to get tobacco and a bit of food. He felt so good about his new hair he told the driver all about it. “It’s the business so it is” Sammy told him, tucking a loaf under his arm as he clattered down the red steps away from the warm smell of diesel and baked goods.

 

Now sometimes, as Sammy inched towards retirement, he thought about ditching the rug. After all, by now plenty of the other fellas had no hair, and they seemed ok with an occasional jibe, some even seemed proud of their baldness. But Sammy just couldn’t bring himself to do it. At the bottom line, he told himself, his head would be cold.

So, when retirement came, he used his bonus to splash out on wig number three.

 

At first it looked identical, but the package said “extra comfort” in bold letters. And it seemed to be true. When he tried it on it felt a little bit less plasticky and it didn’t seem to slip out of place the same.

 

Well retirement didn’t sit well with Sammy. He was bored and lonely. The small damp house creaked and groaned about him, amplifying the silences. He’d often be away over the field watching the lads work or trying to catch them for a chat as they made their way home for dinner at twelve-o-clock or at lousing time at the end of the day.

 

The neighbours knew something wasn’t right when there was no smoke from the chimney and no sign of Sammy at the bread van, and when they knocked and shouted at the back door there was no answer. They found him cold and grey, bonnet and wig oddly angled, lying over the kitchen table with a cold mug of tea untouched beside him.

When Tracy, the young lass next door who was fond of him, was tasked with finding his best clothes for the undertaker she eventually found a black suit with only a little mildew on, and as she hunted for a shirt, she found the new wig and popped it in a bag with the rest.

 

At the funeral home they promised to get him looking well, a funny phrase in the circumstances.

 

Despite the truth that no one but her would ever see Sammy again, the undertakers’ assistant set to work doing the necessaries, before washing and dressing Sammy carefully. She talked to him, like she talked to them all. He wasn’t looking quite right she thought, though truth be told, she didn’t know what he should look like.

Then, as she stepped back to check her handiwork she almost slipped on the wig bag which had fallen on the floor.

“Is this what you need” she asked Sammy, as he lay quiet on the trolley. Deciding it was, she gently fitted the wig to his head, rolling it from side to side to get it fitted just right. She tugged the fringe into place and swept it to the side.

“Aww”, said the assistant, standing back to appreciate her handiwork better, “Now that’s the business”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 A poem in Scots inspied by a visit to the music shop. 

THE MUSIC SHOP

 

He spills bass riffs

a ower the shop

ane aifter anither

fawin frae his skinny fingers.

 

Een hid by curls

his mooth hings wide

as fingers hunt patterns

an the shop fills wi soons.

 

His mate nods alang,

aw reid Puffa an grin,

as he dreams o stardom

an watches ower like a mither hen.

 

At ilka break

in the drivin soons

he cairries on noddin

richt through the silences

keepin the beat,

huddin the dream alive

til the riffmaister

is richt tae gaun again.